Candace’s sharp gaze pivoted back to his, and she held it appraisingly. The only things familiar to him as far as being a Lancaster were the steely blue eyes, the same as Alan’s and their father’s. “Very good. Your paychecks will remain uninterrupted during the transition. If there is anything I need to be apprised of, please find me here at the main house.”
“I will.”
“Tomorrow afternoon, the family attorney is coming by to review plans for the estate. I’d like to invite you to join in that meeting. Does four o’clock work?”
Wendell considered. “That works for me.”
“Good.” She turned and pointed to the house. “Until then, I’d like the crew to work on the areas surrounding the house.”
Wendell scratched his head. The pear trees were next on the schedule, and he’d really hoped to start shearing them that afternoon. “I’d be happy to tidy the house beds for you, but this afternoon I’d planned to work on the orchard. Can the beds wait until later in the week? The pear trees really need to be sheared.”
Candace’s expression shifted. “My mother’s pear orchard? I didn’t realize it still existed.”
“It does. And it’s blooming now. I can take you to see it if you’d like.”
She gazed in the direction of the east fields, to where the orchard lay. “I can’t believe they’re still alive…” she began softly. Then she shook her head quickly. “No, thank you. That won’t be necessary.”
Wendell searched her face. Gone was the moment he thought he’d seen some flicker of emotion. He didn’t yet know her plans for the future of White Pines, but he’d thought that showing her the orchard might inspire some sentimentality and give him a chance to get a read on her thoughts. “Then I’ll plan to join you tomorrow at four o’clock,” he said instead.
She gave him a tight smile. “Very well.” Candace was partway up the yard when she halted and turned. “Don’t waste time shearing in the orchard today. I’d rather the boxwoods along the front of the house get done.”
“Are you sure? Alan liked the orchard done early in the summer.”
“That won’t be necessary. What’s more important is the main house. I’d like to enhance the house’s curb appeal, that sort of thing. I’ll explain at the meeting tomorrow.”
“Alright.” Wendell climbed back into the Gator and watched her retreat to the house. It no longer mattered what she explained at the proposed meeting. He already knew. Candace Lancaster had a new plan for White Pines.
TwelveJulia
Breakfast was plain steel-cut oatmeal. Again. Julia dragged her spoon through the gluey concoction and stole a glance at her aunt across the table. Candace had a cup of tea in front of her and was reading an article inThe Atlantic. Her father’s magazine, Julia thought wistfully. Beside her, Pippa slumped in her chair. “Come on, Pip. One bite.”
Pippa shook her head, ever so slightly.
Candace glanced over the top of the magazine. “Don’t you like oatmeal?”
Julia watched their aunt squint in disapproval, waiting for a reply. When none came, Julia spoke up. “She does. It’s just that we’ve never had it like this.” She glanced down at the bowl of gray mush. Would it have killed their aunt to add a spoonful of sugar? Or some cut pieces of fruit?Somethingkid-friendly. Candace had made an effort, she supposed, but it had never occurred to her to ask the girls what they liked to eat.
Now their aunt sighed. “Well, how does she like it?”
Julia paused. “My mom used to make it with cream and fresh peaches from our fruit trees. But they won’t be ripe until—”
“August,” their aunt interjected, glancing out the window facing the orchards. “Late-August sun makes the juiciest fruit.”
Julia studied her aunt. Candace was a mystery. A complete stranger their father had never talked much about, except to say she’d not liked White Pines the way he had. That she was a city person, and as soon as she could, she’d traded New York for London, where she worked in some kind of finance. Which was why he’d moved his family to the Connecticut estate when their grandfather died and passed it down to him. But now, Julia realized, there might be more to the story.
“Well, how about an egg?” Candace asked.
This gave Julia a measure of hope. She turned to her sister. “You like them scrambled with butter. Right, Pip?” she asked brightly.
“Why don’t you let her answer,” Candace said.
But Pippa was not going to answer, Julia already knew. Just as she was not going to eat. And the small spark of hope Julia had felt for her aunt extinguished like a candle flame.
“Pippa, would you eat a scrambled egg?” Candace asked again.
Pippa stared at the bowl of oatmeal in front of her as if she couldn’t hear.
“Pippa?” she said again.
